[CHAPTER XI.]
MARION AND HERMAN BARNHURST.
Alone in my mansion, secluded from the world, I passed many months in harrowing meditations on the past. Oftentimes I saw the face of Walter dabbled in blood, and both awake and in my dreams, I saw, O, how vividly his last look! I was still rich, (although Walter, as I discovered, after his death, had recklessly squandered more than one-half of my fortune,) but what mattered riches to one devoured like myself by an ever-gnawing remorse? What might I have been had not Burley forced me into that unholy marriage? This question was never out of my mind for a long year, during which I wore the weeds of widowhood, and kept almost entirely within the limits of my mansion.
Toward the close of the year an incident occurred which had an important bearing on my fate. Near my home stood a church, in which a young and eloquent preacher held forth to the admiration of a fashionable congregation, every Sabbath-day. On one occasion I occupied a seat near the pulpit, and was much struck by his youthful appearance, combined with eloquence so touching and enthusiastic. His eagle eye, shone from his pallid face, with all the fire of an earnest, a heartfelt sincerity. I was struck by the entire manner of the man, and more than once in his sermon he seemed to address me in especial, for our eyes met, as though there was a mutual magnetism in our gaze. When I returned home I could not banish his face nor his accents from my memory; I felt myself devoured by opposing emotions; remorse for the past, mingled with a sensation of interest in the youthful preacher. At length, after much thought, I sent him this note by the hands of a servant in livery:—
Reverend Sir,—
A lady who heard your eloquent sermon on "Conscience," on Sabbath last, desires to ask your advice in a matter touching the peace of her soul. She resides at No. ——, and will be glad to receive you to-morrow evening.
M. H.
This singular note was dispatched, and the servant directed to inform the Rev. Herman Barnhurst of my full name. As the appointed hour drew nigh, I felt nervous and restless. Will he come? Shall I unbosom myself to him, and obtain at least a portion of mental peace by confessing the deeds and thoughts which rest so heavy on my soul? At last dusk came; two candles stood lighted on the mantle of the front parlor, and seated on the sofa I nervously awaited the coming of the preacher.
"I will confess all!" I thought, and raising my eyes, surveyed myself in the mirror which hung opposite. The past year, with all its sorrow, had rather added to, than detracted from, my personal appearance. My form was more matured and womanly. And the sorrow which I had endured had given a grave earnestness to my look, which, in the eyes of some, would have been more winning than the glance of voluptuous languor. Dressed in deep black, my bust covered to the throat, and my hair gathered plainly aside from my face, I looked the grave, serious—and, I may add, without vanity—the beautiful widow. The Rev. Herman Barnhurst was announced at last,—how I trembled as I heard his step in the hall! He entered, and greeting him with an extended hand, I thanked him warmly for calling in answer to my informal note, and motioned him to a chair. There was surprise and constraint in his manner, but he never once took his eyes from my face. He stammered and even blushed as he spoke to me.
"You spoke, madam, of a case of conscience," he began.
"A case of conscience about which I wished to speak to you."